


Trust No 1

by scullywolf



Series: TXF: Scenes in Between [196]
Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M, Gen, Missing Scene, Mulder on the run, Pre-Episode
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-11
Updated: 2021-02-04
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:27:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26399407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scullywolf/pseuds/scullywolf
Relationships: Fox Mulder/Dana Scully
Series: TXF: Scenes in Between [196]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/287705
Comments: 6
Kudos: 19





	1. Chapter 1

(Pre-episode)

****

“I got a motorcycle,” Mulder announces as he walks into the trailer. “Now I won’t need to bother Michael for rides anymore.”

Gibson blinks, stone-faced, his back ramrod straight.

“It’s okay, I paid cash,” Mulder adds, with a bit of an internal eye-roll. _Like I’d be dumb enough to use a credit card and put myself back on the radar. Relax, no one’s going to trace anything back to us._

“Us?” Gibson says, stiffly. “So you’re… you’re not…?”

Mulder frowns, confused. And then it dawns on him what Gibson’s actually worried about. 

“What, leaving? No, of course not. Jesus, Gibson, you really think I’d do that to you?”

“I know you’re thinking pretty loudly about getting on that bike and not looking back. And I don’t even blame you, but--”

“Oh, hell.” 

Mulder shuts the door and walks over to where Gibson is sitting. No matter how much practice he’s had at policing his thoughts, he still slips up all the time. And yes, of course he’s been thinking about going home, pretty much from the moment he saw the bike sitting parked at the gas station with a “For Sale” sign stuck to it. Of _course_ he has. But it’s a fantasy; he’d never actually do it. No matter how little regard he has for his own safety, how much he’d be willing to risk if it meant seeing Scully again, he owes Gibson way too much.

“Gibson, I am not going to abandon you. Okay?” He concentrates, so there is no disconnect between his thoughts and his words. “I promise. Not after everything we’ve been through, everything you’ve done for me.”

Gibson studies him for another long moment, then gives the barest nod of his head and finally relaxes his shoulders. Mulder punches him lightly on the upper arm and gives a lopsided grin.

“I mean, I know I’m kind of an asshole sometimes, but come on. I’m not _that_ big of an asshole.” 

***

Fifty-seven days. Just over eight weeks. That’s how long it’s been since Mulder’s last email, the one in which he warned her that he wouldn’t be able to write again for a while.

Not that his warning has stopped her from checking.

The internet cafe has become part of her routine. On Saturdays like today, when she’s not helping Doggett and Reyes in the field, Scully stops by with William on her way to run errands. A couple of days a week she doesn’t need to be at the Academy until noon, so she takes a morning walk to the cafe before her mom arrives to babysit. The baristas know her order by now - chai tea on the weekends, coffee with milk during the week - and are friendly but not chatty. It’s honestly probably _too_ routine and predictable, or it would be if she were the one in hiding. She’s identified a handful of other “regulars,” but none that give her cause for concern; everyone here tends to keep to themselves. 

Chai in hand, she finds an empty computer and parks the stroller. William is dozing, bundled up against the late December chill outside, and the coffee shop is cozy and warm without being stifling. Scully has removed her gloves but doesn’t bother taking off her coat; that would be an acknowledgement of the hope that this time she will be staying longer than a minute or two. She tries to convince herself that she expects the empty inbox, that she won’t be disappointed by another day of radio silence, that her stomach won’t do a backflip at the sight of “3 new messages” because she _knows_ they will all be spam.

It is a futile exercise.

Fifty-seven days. She’s managing. Raising this baby of theirs and molding young minds at the Academy and praying every night for Mulder’s safety. She has to believe this is temporary, and that eventually they can be a family again. A real family.

Suppressing a sigh, she logs off and tries to turn her focus to the day ahead.

***

The day after Mulder comes back with a bike of his own, it pours. Gibson is guiltily, but deeply, relieved. He wants to trust that Mulder won’t abandon him, knows all too well how people’s inner thoughts can be complicated and contradictory, but at the same time, he can’t help worrying.

The rain, however, does not dampen Mulder’s fervor. His trips to the larger library have been fruitful, and he has been hard at work on a plan to breach the facility that the old man in Gibson’s dreams spoke about. He spends the entire rainy day poring over everything he has printed at the library, papers carpeting the floor, seed husks piling up on the table.

***

The New Year arrives without fanfare. Scully doesn’t turn on the TV to watch the Times Square coverage (she hasn’t managed _that_ since she and Mulder watched together, two years ago, in a hospital waiting room). For that matter, she doesn’t even make it to midnight. After William goes down for the night, she takes a bath, drinks a glass of wine, and crawls into bed.

On the surface, this year looks much the same as the last. She’s still alone, still wondering where Mulder is and hoping he’s all right. In truth, though, so much is different. She has William, for one thing, which on its own is a bigger difference than she can properly express. For another, up until a couple of months ago, she was hearing from Mulder somewhat regularly, receiving assurances that he was, at least, alive. She still worries - of course she does - but it’s nowhere near the same. She has good cause to believe, far more than she did a year ago, that he is going to be okay, and that they will eventually be together again.

That doesn’t make the waiting any less frustrating or the loneliness less sharp. But the absence of a constant, exhausting undercurrent of despair is both notable and welcome.

_Next year,_ she vows to herself as she drifts off to sleep. _We are going to figure this out and eliminate the threat, and next year he’ll be home._

***

For all that Mulder intends, truly, to keep his promise to Gibson, the temptation to flee home to Scully continues to gnaw at him. Now that he actually has the means to do so, that he can envision concrete steps toward a way out of exile, it’s almost painful to pull off the highway in another town, heading toward another library, instead of just pressing on. But he did promise.

What he can’t resist doing, however, is writing to her.

It’s been almost ten weeks since their last correspondence, and even if it means he can’t return to this particular library again, he has to do it. His fingers tremble as he opens a blank email.

“Dearest Dana…”


	2. Chapter 2

_“You will continue driving west until I tell you otherwise.”_  


Lips pursed in annoyance, she heads toward the freeway on-ramp, wondering how far he’s going to make her go with her phone held up to her ear. As if he’s read her mind, the man speaks again.

“I am going to hang up the phone now. I will contact you again with further instructions at the appropriate time. If you make any outgoing calls, or you answer a call from anyone but me, we’re done. You got that?”

“Look, I have a child at home--” she begins to protest, but he cuts her off.

“And I’m certain that Special Agent Reyes is more than equal to the task of looking after him. These are my terms. Take them or leave them.”

She almost tells him exactly where he can shove his terms. But Mulder…

“Fine,” she barks, and she hangs up before he can.

***

Scully has been on I-66 for over an hour and has nearly run out of west when the phone finally rings again.

“Take I-81 southbound.”

She bites back a groan, mentally calculating how far she’s already traveled and how long it will take her to get home.

“And then what?”

“And then you continue south until I tell you otherwise.”

She takes a glance down at the fuel gauge; nearly half the tank is gone already.

“Am I going to be driving far enough to need to stop for gas?”

“You will continue south until I tell you otherwise.” He hangs up the call.

“Guess that’s a ‘yes’ then,” she mutters.

It’s still early in the day, not even nine in the morning, but she is already growing impatient with the secret squirrel nonsense. The surveillance, the voice distortion, the _multiple_ cars, and now apparently driving almost to West Virginia… it’s completely over the top, even for the NSA.

If this man really does have information about the super-soldiers, though -- information that will help eliminate the threat against Mulder and allow him to come home -- then all of this will have been worth it, right? 

What lengths _won’t_ she go to, if it means bringing Mulder home?

***

If she was impatient at nine, she is fuming by noon. At three, she has begun to question whether this whole thing wasn’t an elaborate plan to draw her away from William.

She did, indeed, have to stop and refuel the car, which was accomplished with cash from the glove compartment and accompanied by more threats and warnings against attempting to contact anyone or deviate in any way from the instructions she was given. She drove south all the way to Roanoke, and then just as she was about to throw her hands in the air and abort the whole damned thing, he had her go east. She’s now approaching Norfolk, which would have taken three hours if she’d come directly from DC, instead of the eight it’s taken her to go almost all the way around the perimeter of Virginia.

She has missed three calls from Reyes, one from Doggett, and two from Quantico. When she asks permission to at least check her voicemails, she is told that he has “already taken the liberty” and that the messages “contained nothing worthy of concern.”

“And why should I believe you?” she says, exasperated. “How do I know this wasn’t a setup from the beginning, you promising information as a means to draw me away and send me driving all around Virginia?”

“Don’t flatter yourself, Agent Scully. The people you’re up against could take you out of the equation any time they wished. And remember, you are the one who asked for this meeting, not me.”

“I asked for a _meeting_ , not to be sent driving around all damned day for no reason.”

“If you want to meet in person, then this is what is required. I will not compromise my safety.” There is a long pause before he speaks again. “I’d be more than happy to wait until I can speak to Mulder directly, if you’d rather go home right now.”

If it is a calculated attempt to push her buttons, it works flawlessly. Indignance flares, even as she recognizes rationally that she could well be getting played.

“Is that what this was?! Did you think if you made me waste the whole day I’d just give up?”

“Take the next exit and turn left at the intersection.”

The abrupt change catches her off-guard, before she remembers that the only reason she’s on the phone with him now is that he called a few minutes ago to give her updated instructions. This is the first time, aside from the fuel stop, that she’s being taken off the major highways. Maybe this stupidity is nearly at an end.

***

It’s not.

She continues on back roads for another three hours, slowly winding her way northward through rural Tidewater Virginia. The early darkness of January means the sun has completely set by the time she is _finally_ told to turn on to a gravel road that opens up into a field.  



	3. Chapter 3

_“Who authorizes you? I mean, what gives you the right? Who ARE you?!”  
“I’m the future, Agent Scully. And I risked my life being here.”   
“Well then why do it? I mean, why meet me?”   
“Because you can reach Mulder. Mulder needs to know what I know or he may have no future. Perhaps no one will. Another car is parked on the main road, half a mile out. If I see that you haven’t contacted Mulder in the next 24 hours, I disappear and you never see me again. Do you understand, lady?”_

Scully stalks away, seething. All of the theatrics, all of the _waste_ , and for what? A two-minute conversation that raised more questions than it answered? What was the _point_ of any of it?

Scowling, she pulls her phone out of her jacket pocket - because apparently it was absolutely necessary to blow up her clothes and her gun and inspect her watch, but Mr. Mysterious had no qualms about letting her keep her phone? - and punches the speed dial for Monica Reyes. Monica picks up immediately.

“Dana! Thank god. We’ve been trying to reach you all day. Where are you?”

“At the end of a very long and very stupid wild goose chase,” she grumbles. “I’m sorry I couldn’t get in touch earlier. How’s William?”

“He’s just fine. John’s in the kitchen right now heating up a bottle for him.”

“Agent Doggett stayed with you?” she asks, surprised.

“Not the whole day,” Monica says. “After that couple left, he went to the office for a while, but then he came back a few hours ago when we still hadn’t heard from you. Seriously though, where have you been?”

Scully answers with a groan, then gives an abbreviated account of the day’s events as she continues making her way back to the main road. Her foot catches on something in the dark and she stumbles, cursing. Of all the times to be without a flashlight…

When she gets to the part about the car and the remote detonation, Monica says, “Holy hell, Dana! Do you need one of us to come get you?” 

“No, he said there’s another car parked up the road. I’m heading toward it now.”

“But are you sure that’s safe?” Monica presses. “What if it’s rigged to explode, too?”

“Whoa, wait, what’s rigged to explode?” Scully hears Doggett say in the background, and she shudders at the thought that she spent the entire day driving around on top of a bomb. However, the fact that she’s still alive right now is a fairly good indicator that she’ll be able to get home safely.

“If he wanted me dead, he had ample opportunity,” she says. “No, what he wants is for me to contact Mulder, which I can’t very well do if I’ve been blown up. I’ll be fine.”

“You’re sure?”

“I’m sure.”

What she’s not sure of is exactly where she _is_ right now. It became harder and harder to track her relative location after she left the interstate. The very notion of spending who knows how many more hours on the road fills her with a mix of exhaustion and dread, and she’s angry all over again at the phenomenal waste of time today has been.

“Maybe you can help me figure out where I am, though,” she says. “It was too dark to read the street signs, the last couple of turns he told me to make, but I was on Route 17 going north for a while, somewhere between Norfolk and Fredericksburg. It’s not much to go on, but it’s all I’ve got at the moment.”

“I’m on it,” Monica tells her. “Can I use your computer?”

“Of course.”

“Here, you can talk to John while I pull up MapQuest.”

Ahead, Scully can just make out the bulk of a vehicle in the darkness. She reaches to unsnap her holster out of habit and grimaces when her fingers catch nothing but the fabric of her waistband.

In her ear, Doggett barks, “What in the heck’s going on? Where’ve you been all day, and why is Monica talking about things being rigged to explode?”

Scully sighs. “I’m going to let her fill you in on the details because I would just as soon not go through it all again right now. Short answer is that I’m fine, just tired and frustrated. I’ll be on my way home soon, hopefully. I want to thank you, though, for helping to look after William. I really do appreciate it.”

“Well, you’re welcome, but I didn’t do all that much. I’m just glad you’re okay.”

She approaches the car, again wishing she had a flashlight. It’s too dark to see anything through the rear windows, but the front of the car at least appears to be empty. Cautiously, she reaches for the door handle; it’s unlocked, and the interior light comes on when she opens the door. There’s a piece of paper on the driver’s seat.

“Son of a bitch,” she murmurs, picking it up.

“Agent Scully?”

“You can tell Agent Reyes that I don’t need her help after all. I’ve been left a map.”

“A map?” Doggett asks. “So where are you?”

Thirty miles. She is all of thirty miles from Fredericksburg. It is going to take her less than two hours to get home. It _could have_ taken her less than two hours to get _here_. Of all the stupid, pointless, absolutely and completely asinine...

“Just a bit southeast of Fredericksburg,” she says tightly, glancing at her watch. “I should be home by nine.”

“All right then. Be careful.”

“Yeah.”

***

This isn’t the first time Monica has been asked to watch William, but it is the first time she’s had to try and put him to bed.

And he is _not_ having it.

She’s never seen him like this. She’s never _felt_ him like this; William’s energy is always vibrant -- she’s known that since the night he was born -- but it’s usually contained, like the potential energy in a compressed spring. Tonight, it’s like a storm, howling around him as he wails in her arms.

“I don’t know what’s wrong. Should we call Dana?”

John chuckles at her, evidently unconcerned, because of course he can’t feel what she feels.

“There’s nothing wrong. And there’s nothing she could do even if there was. He’s just tired.”

“No, John, I’m telling you, something is--”

“Here,” he says, holding out his hands. “I’ll show you.”

She passes the squirming baby to her partner and steps back, nerves jangling. John gathers William against his chest and starts to walk around the living room, gently bouncing him while murmuring softly. At first, Monica can’t hear what he’s saying over the sound of William’s cries, but as the boy gradually quiets, John’s words become clearer.

“There you go, easy does it, your mama’s gonna be home soon, don’t you worry, atta boy…”

He’s asleep within minutes, energy storm subsided. Monica shakes her head, a little abashed at having so comprehensively misread the situation. 

“You were right,” she says quietly.

“Eh, nothing I hadn’t seen before, that’s all.” He doesn’t meet her eyes, his gaze still trained on the top of William’s head as he slows the bouncing to a gentle sway. “Luke certainly did his share of fussing.”

She didn’t know him then, of course. She’s only ever known him as a grieving father; this is the first time she’s gotten a glimpse of what he was like as a _dad_ , and it makes her unexpectedly emotional. 

“I’m gonna see if I can go put him down,” he says, and she nods, watching him go before turning to pick up the few scattered toys and take William’s dinner bottle back to the kitchen.

***

By the time she has retrieved her own car from where she left it parked this morning, after stewing on the whole drive home and running through the day’s various cryptic conversations over and over, Scully has come to three conclusions.

Number one: nearly everything that man claimed to know about her, he could have learned by bugging her apartment and going through her garbage bins. What did he really give her that was concrete? Knowing her clothing size seemed eerie at first, until she remembered the receipts she’s thrown away from a handful of recent shopping trips. Her childhood clown phobia? She and her mom were laughing about that in her living room a month or so ago. The rest of it -- resting heart rate, ATM pin, college boyfriend, et cetera -- was only specific enough to seem unnerving without actually proving that he knew any of it.

Her emails to Mulder _would_ require some additional access, but that could be as simple as someone following her to the cafe. It’s probably one of the “regulars” that she -- blithely, it would seem -- dismissed as a potential threat.

Number two: while her apartment has definitely been under surveillance, apparently for quite a while, Mulder’s has not. The “one lonely night” the man mentioned? She’s reasonably certain he was referring to the night she asked Mulder to stay after the IVF failed, and that was _not_ their first time together. If, as he said, the events of that night surprised him, then he could not have known about what they had already been doing at Mulder’s place. Or, for that matter, what they had been doing at her place before that night. So now she also knows approximately when the surveillance actually began.

Number three: if this man genuinely does have useful intel about super soldiers -- and that is an extraordinarily big “if” -- then it may in fact be worthwhile to call Mulder home. The idea terrifies and thrills her in almost equal measure. On the one hand, there is nothing she wants more than to have him home. Nothing. But on the other, if she has miscalculated, and calling him out of hiding only ends up getting him killed, she will never forgive herself.

In the end, it is Agent Doggett’s words from yesterday that settle the issue for her. _If we know who these super-soldiers are we can go after them. This is somebody giving us a way that can make it safe for Mulder to come home._

_How else are you going to get him home?_

It’s a risk, possibly a big one, but ultimately, it’s one she has to take. He has been gone for almost seven months. This is the first time in those nearly seven months that there has even been a _chance_ he might be able to come home. If she lets this chance go by, how much more time will pass before they get another one?

She walks into her apartment having made up her mind. There is a giddy, fluttery feeling in her stomach that is only temporarily eclipsed by ravenous hunger as she steps through the door and the smell of Thai food envelops her. Reyes and Doggett look up from where they’re sitting, at her kitchen table, takeout cartons amassed between them.

“Hope you don’t mind, we got takeout,” Reyes says, standing. “We didn’t know if you’d have a chance to eat, but if you’re hungry, there’s a bunch left.”

The last thing she ate was a bag of almonds from the gas station, hours and hours ago. To say she’s hungry is a massive understatement.

“Mind? I could kiss you both right now.”

Doggett’s eyebrows shoot up to his hairline, and Reyes laughs. “I’ll get you a plate.”

Scully nods. “I’m just going to change and wash up.”

On her way to the bedroom, she grabs a plastic bag from the closet. The likelihood is slim that there will be much in the way of usable trace evidence on the clothes she’s wearing, but it would be irresponsible not to even look. She opens the bedroom door quietly so as not to wake William; by the soft glow of the bedside lamp, she can see him sleeping peacefully in his crib, and she smiles, some of the tension from the day melting away. Though she would love a shower, she's too hungry, so she settles for changing into sweats, carefully folding and bagging the "borrowed" outfit, then washes her hands and face before heading back to the kitchen.

Doggett and Reyes have tidied up their dishes and are in the process of putting on coats and shoes.

"We'll let you get some rest," Reyes says, though she’s looking at Doggett when she does. “Whatever else you might have to tell us about what happened today can wait until tomorrow.”

“Unless,” Doggett adds, in a tone that sounds like he’s continuing an argument from earlier, “there’s anything you think we need to know now. Or if you don’t feel safe staying here alone, knowing that this Shadow Man may well have eyes and ears on you.”

“Is that what we’re calling him?” Scully asks, arching one eyebrow. “Look, I appreciate the offer, but I’ll be fine. As _violating_ as it feels to be surveilled by some NSA _creep_ \--” she emphasizes the words, fully assuming that she’s being listened to right now “--I don’t have any reason to believe that William and I are not safe here.”

“Well I still don’t like it,” Doggett says, frowning. “Why don’t you let us post a couple agents out front, just in case?”

“I really don’t think that’s necess--”

“That’s a good idea, actually,” Reyes interjects, then drops her voice to a murmur. “Especially in light of what happened this morning. We know you can take care of yourself, Dana, but we also don’t know exactly what we’re up against, here. Maybe the answer is to try and watch the watchers, find out who they are, see if we can figure out who else the Shadow Man is working with.”

Scully sighs but has to admit that’s a sensible course of action. Either the knowledge that she’s being watched over will deter this so-called Shadow Man and his associates, or it won’t, in which case they could be exposed and identified.

“All right,” she agrees.

“Good,” Doggett says. “I’ll take first watch until I can get someone else over here.”

As soon as they leave, Scully makes herself a plate of food and takes it to her computer desk. If the Shadow Man is able to access her emails even when she sends them from the internet cafe, it seems pointless to wait until morning to write to Mulder. The giddy feeling from earlier comes rushing back as she types.

> Mr. Hale,
> 
> I am overjoyed to tell you that circumstances appear to have changed. Exercise caution, but put the plan in motion. I cannot wait to see you.
> 
> All my love,
> 
> Dana

She clicks “send” with her heart in her throat, wondering where Mulder is and when he’ll be able to read her message. How long it might take for him to make the necessary arrangements and begin the journey home. He could be in her arms as early as tomorrow, a notion that seemed impossible just 24 hours ago.

She powers down the computer -- according to their plan, his next communication will come via text message from a burner phone -- and picks up her plate to finish eating in the kitchen. A glance out the window as she stands up reveals Agent Doggett sitting in his truck across the street, cell phone held to his ear. She sighs, regretting the additional work and worry she’s given her former partner but also deeply grateful that he’s got her back, he and Reyes both. She appreciates them more than she can say.

With any luck, all of this will soon be over. Mulder will come home, the Shadow Man will give him the information they need to take down the super-soldiers, and things can go back to… well… “normal” for them, anyway. It’s maybe too much to hope for, but right now, she will allow herself to be comforted by the fantasy, at least for a little while. When she finally crawls into bed, later, she falls asleep with her cell phone on the pillow beside her, imagining the sensation of being wrapped securely in Mulder’s arms.

***

“Holy shit,” he breathes, reading her email for the third time.

The library’s just about to close, and he had checked his email one last time before leaving, more out of impulse than any actual expectation that there would be anything there. The surprise of a new email was immediately eclipsed by the surprise over its contents.

Home. He can go home. He and Gibson _both_ , even. No more hiding in the desert. No more ache of longing binding his stomach and keeping him from sleep. It almost sounds too good to be true, but she called him Mr. Hale, the code phrase they established before he left so he’d be able to tell a genuine summons from a trap. This is the real deal.

Which means the threat is past. Maybe Skinner cut a deal, hell, maybe Kersh did. Who knows? Who cares?! He gets to go home!

The grin on his face is massive as he logs off and heads for the door.

***

“You’re leaving," Gibson says, before Mulder has even closed the front door behind himself. "You promised you wouldn’t. But I guess I shouldn’t have expected you to keep that promise.”

It's still weird, Gibson knowing what he's thinking about before he's even said anything, but it doesn't throw him for a loop the way it used to.

“No, _we’re_ leaving, Gibson. Both of us.”

Gibson scoffs. “You know I’m not going anywhere. It’s not safe. You might be able to outrun them if they catch us, but I--”

“Scully said it’s safe. And _yes_ , I’m sure the message really was from her.”

Gibson stares hard at him and Mulder thinks as forcefully and loudly and clearly as he can.

_We can both be free. I swear. I will protect you_.

“I believe that you believe that,” Gibson says finally. “But I don’t think either of us knows for sure whether that’s really true.”

“Look, I know you’re scared. And you’re right that there are no guarantees. But for the first time since I left Washington, there is at least a _chance_ that it’s safe for us to get out of here. If we don't take it, I don't know when another one is gonna come along. Do you really want to hide here for the rest of your life?"

"If it doesn't mean dying horribly and having my head karate chopped off by an alien replicant? Yeah. I'm fine with that."

Mulder’s thoughts flicker, involuntarily, to Dr. Parenti’s severed head in a jar, to the gash in Skinner’s forehead, to his own memory of being hurled across Parenti’s lab by Billy Miles.

“Exactly,” says Gibson. “I’m not letting that happen to me.”

“ _I trust Scully_ ,” Mulder says, thinks. “She wouldn’t call me home if it wasn’t safe. She’s too smart and too cautious to take a risk like that.”

This, at last, seems to convince him, if only somewhat. He may not trust Mulder’s judgment, but he apparently trusts Scully’s, at least enough to finally sigh and say, “Okay. I hope you’re right.”

Despite Gibson’s reluctance, it takes almost no time at all to pack. They don’t have much to take, not bothering with spare clothes. Mulder shoves the stuff he printed about Mount Weather into his backpack, along with a little food, the fake IDs from the Gunmen and all of their remaining cash. They’re out the door and on the road in less than twenty minutes.

On the way to the train station, Mulder stops to gas up the motorcycle and buy four prepaid cell phones from the convenience store. Two hours later, as they’re getting ready to board the train that will take them eastward, Mulder types Scully’s number into the first phone and sends a single-word text message.

“Midnight.”

Once the message sends, he opens the back of the phone, pockets the battery, and tosses the phone in a garbage can.


	4. Chapter 4

For the hundredth time in the last 18 hours, Gibson wonders why he agreed to this.

The train is busy and loud in a way he hasn’t had to deal with for a long time. Living for months crammed in a tiny trailer with Mulder’s noisy mind was nothing compared to this. Dozens of people in close proximity, only a handful of them asleep, all drowning each other out and making it nearly impossible to listen for threats. He finds himself trembling with the effort.

 _Jesus, poor kid_ , Mulder practically screams beside him.

“I’m fine,” he says through clenched teeth. “Just got used to the quiet.”

“Only a few more hours,” Mulder murmurs aloud, and Gibson nods.

A picture flares to life in Mulder’s mind, something Gibson has seen there before but Mulder’s never spoken about. Gibson doesn’t know if he’s remembering a nightmare or something that actually happened; it _feels_ like the latter, but that’s impossible.

Mulder catches Gibson frowning at him and shrugs, sighing. “Sorry. I know it’s not the same, and I’m not suggesting I know exactly what you’re going through. I just can’t help remembering how it felt.”

“How _what_ felt?”

Now Mulder’s the one to frown, confused. “You don’t know? I mean… You couldn’t see that memory just now?”

“People usually remember things in a kind of shorthand. There’s not always context. This memory of yours… I’ve seen it before, but I don’t know what it means or if it’s even real.”

“What did you see?”

“You’re in a hospital, I think. And you can hear people like I can. But it’s too much. It hurts, and you can’t… you’re not…”

“Yeah,” Mulder says quietly. “Yeah, that was real.”

“But how?”

 _There was an artifact_ , Mulder thinks. _A piece of a ship, a spacecraft. I don’t know how or why it affected me like that, but it did. I could hear thoughts, but not like you do, not really. My mind couldn’t handle the input. It burned me up, shut me down. I almost died. Only reason I didn’t is that someone cut open my head and took whatever it was out of me._

Gibson can see images again as Mulder remembers waking up in that room, remembers Scully rescuing him. Mulder’s thoughts slide away from the narrative of the memory and latch on to Scully, and how he can’t wait to see her, and William, and there is this swell of affection that is unlike anything Gibson ever felt from his own parents. It makes him a little sad, even though he’s long since come to terms with the fact that his parents were always more afraid of him than anything else.

“They just cut it out of you?” Gibson prompts, hoping to steer Mulder back on course.

Mulder blinks. “Uh, yeah. I mean, I assume so. I used to have, well it was never a _big_ scar, but…” He brushes his fingers over his forehead, almost like it’s a reflex. “Then later, after I came back from the dead, everything just… healed. Way faster and way more completely than should have even been possible. Can’t even feel the scar at all anymore. But yeah, that’s where they cut me open, and then when I woke up afterward, that was that. Only thoughts in my head were my own.”

Gibson wonders what it would be like to never hear anyone else’s thoughts, ever. The only way that ever truly happens for him is if he’s physically isolated, though when he’s not so out of practice, he can choose to turn the volume down by picking one thing or person to focus on. He realizes that as Mulder’s been talking (both in his head and out loud), that’s exactly what has happened; the rest of the mental chatter in the train car has faded into the background, nothing more than a dull murmur at the edge of his mind. He’s grateful for the respite, but it also means he might miss something, if there’s someone or something on this train that wants to hurt them. He really should go back to listening.

But also he’s just so, so tired.

“How much longer until the next station?” he asks, wondering if maybe, since he hasn’t picked up on the presence of any threats on the journey so far, he can afford to let his guard down a little, at least until they stop again and more new people get on board.

Mulder shifts and digs into his pocket for the brochure they picked up at the station the last time they transferred, which has a timetable with all the stops on this rail line. “Hmm, forty-five minutes, give or take? Why?”

“Can you do me a favor and just think about something really boring for a little while? Like, I don’t know, FBI protocols or something?”

Mulder chuckles. “Can’t say I’ve ever really been much of an expert on those. But sure. You gonna try to nap?”

Gibson doubts actually falling asleep is possible, but he nods anyway. Even if he can just rest for a while, that will be good. Just in case, though…

“Make sure I’m awake when we get to the next station, okay? So I can listen to the new people getting on. Just in case.”

Mulder nods, and a jumble of emotion spills out of him: pity, guilt, gratitude, regret, and something else Gibson can’t immediately identify. There’s this sense of _he’s way too young to have to have to carry all this_ and _I should be the one protecting him_ , which makes Gibson want to roll his eyes. Mulder still seems to think of him as the 12 year-old kid he was when they met, but he’s 16 now, and he’s been living on his own for a good long while. He can more than take care of himself. But there it is again, that flash of something else, and then it’s like Mulder makes the conscious decision to stop and focus on that one feeling because it completely takes over. It’s warm and something like affection but not quite, and Gibson puzzles over it some more before realizing, finally, that it’s pride.

Mulder is proud of him.

It’s not something Gibson has felt directed toward him many times in his life, and it makes him squirm a little bit. But it’s also nice.

“Thanks,” he says quietly, and Mulder nods again.

“You got it, kid.” 

_All right, let’s see. Now, unfortunately for me, I’ve had to sit through more than a few training seminars on the application of Chapter 119 of Title 18 of the US Penal Code. Fortunately for you, this is just about the most boring subject on the face of the Earth, and as I happen to be cursed with an eidetic memory, I can recite the stupid thing chapter and verse. Consider this your first class ticket on an express train to Snoozeville._

Gibson can’t help but smile a little as he leans back in his seat and closes his eyes.

_Chapter 119: Wire and Electronic Communications Interception and Interception of Oral Communications. Section 2510: Definitions. As used in this chapter-- (1) “wire communication” means any aural transfer made in whole or in part through the use of facilities for the transmission of communications by the aid of wire, cable, or other like connection between the point of origin and the point of reception…_

The gentle rhythm of Mulder’s bland recitation melds perfectly with the steady rocking and the click-clack of the train, and in spite of his apprehensions, Gibson is asleep in minutes.

***

From the relative comfort of his office, the Shadow Man watches the grainy feed from the station platform’s surveillance camera. It’s not exactly riveting viewing; Agent Scully paces back and forth, having arrived at the station more than an hour before the train is due. But, this is what he does. He watches. All day long, day after day, he watches and he listens.

It’s a form of omniscience, being able to drop into the daily life of virtually anyone he may choose, whenever he needs to, observing unseen from the shadows. (Not the most imaginative moniker, this one these FBI agents have given him, but he supposes it does fit.) Tonight, all he needs is confirmation that Mulder really is going to get off that train.

Scully’s posture belies not only anticipation but also fear. Her guard is fully up, but she need not worry. Not tonight, anyway. Let them have their reunion. He will call tomorrow to arrange a meeting, and then he’ll eliminate Mulder once and for all. He has waited months for this opportunity; one more night is nothing.

That is, until something happens that tosses every one of his carefully-laid plans out the window: someone blacks out the camera lens.

Ah. So. His little employee has finally started to put the pieces together, has he? He supposes it was just a matter of time, but this is particularly inconvenient. Without eyes on the platform, he loses his advantage. Despite his claims to the contrary, it would absolutely be possible for Mulder and Scully to vanish into the wind, away from his view. He cannot let that happen.

He glances at the clock and scowls. It will be a close-run thing, getting to Alexandria from Bethesda before the train arrives, but the late hour and empty roads are on his side. He’s out the door and on the road in minutes, speeding southward.

Looks like Mulder and Scully won’t be getting their little reunion after all. But they’re the ones who decided not to play along. Now the plan has to change, and that’s fine by him. A predatory grin lurks at the corners of his mouth as he presses harder on the accelerator.

This ends tonight.

***

As the train begins to slow on approach to the station, Mulder’s leg bounces with both nerves and excitement. Beside him, Gibson is still and silent, all of his attention focused on the thoughts of the people outside.

Suddenly he gasps and grabs Mulder’s arm. “You can’t go out there.”

_No, please, I’m so close..._

“You can hear someone out there?” Mulder asks tightly.

“Yes! There’s a man, and he’s one of _them_. He wants to kill you.”

“Damnit…”

_Scully said we’d be safe. Oh no, Scully…_

“Is Scully in danger?”

Gibson’s eyes are wide. “I don’t know. He’s… he’s got a gun, and he’s not aiming for her, but he doesn’t care that she’s in the way.”

Mulder leaps to his feet.

“Wait! You can’t!”

The three pops of gunfire are muted from inside the train car, but Mulder hears them anyway. He hurtles forward to lean over Gibson and peer out the window. There’s movement on the platform, bodies on the ground, but it’s too dark and they’re too far away for him to make out any detail.

The train picks up speed again, and a ripple of confused chatter fills the car and drowns out the conductor’s words coming over the loudspeaker. Mulder’s insides give a desperate lurch as he catches just a glimpse of Scully’s stricken face through the window. She’s on her feet, thank god. She wasn’t shot. 

For the span of a heartbeat, there she is in front of him, real and solid, not just a presence in his mind. But then she’s gone again as the train whisks him past, and he wants to cry out at the injustice of it. _It’s not fair. I was so close_. The months of separation feel like an iron band around his ribs.

But it’s clearly still not safe to go home. He knows she wouldn’t have brought him out of hiding unless she truly believed it would be okay, but apparently whoever led her to that belief was either wrong or lying. Will it ever be completely safe? Is this what the rest of his life is going to be, this hiding and running and always looking over his shoulder? Feeling like he’s in this limbo, merely existing while the rest of his life carries on thousands of miles away without him?

It’s not until Gibson grabs him by the arm and shakes him that he realizes the boy has been speaking. He blinks.

“What?”

“He’s on the train! The man who was on the platform. He knows you’re here, and he’s coming after you!”

Mulder snaps to attention. “Can you tell where he is?”

Gibson squeezes his eyes shut, visibly shaking from concentration or fear or both. “He’s… he’s three cars ahead, but under… hanging on to the underside. I think he was on the tracks and then grabbed on to the train as it went over him.” He opens his eyes again, wide. “We have to get out of here!”

Mulder’s stomach tightens as he does a quick mental calculation. While he didn’t plan for this exact scenario, he did look up several potential places he could try to go, in case it turned out that it wasn’t safe in D.C. after all. One of them is a quarry with significant iron deposits, just south of Alexandria. The tracks run near enough that he just might make it, might be able to lead the man there, if he can manage to avoid getting caught first.

Quickly, nonverbally, he rushes to convey his plan to Gibson. He’s got about two or three minutes to jump off the train and hope to god the man follows him. He jerks open the zipper on his backpack and pulls out one of the burner phones he bought, as well as a couple of hundred dollar bills, shoving both into his pocket. 

“I hoped we wouldn’t have to use these,” he says aloud, “but this is exactly why I bought them. Stay on the train for two more stops, then find somewhere to lay low. Let me know where you are, and I’ll come find you. The number for this phone is on the paper in the backpack. Got it?”

“What if something happens to you?”

 _Call Scully_ , Mulder tells him telepathically. “But I’m hoping it won’t come to that,” he adds.

Gibson nods, and Mulder gives his shoulder a squeeze before hurrying down the aisle to the door. He moves quickly between cars, into and through the one in front of where they were sitting, and then the next. If Gibson’s right, the man should be there just ahead of him, underneath the very next car. 

Mulder’s heart pounds as he turns the latch to open the exterior door. He certainly doesn’t want to get caught, but he also needs to make sure the man follows him into the quarry and doesn’t get on the train and go after Gibson. Outside the ground rushes past, and he steels himself for how much this next part is going to suck.

_I am getting way too old for this shit._

He grips the handrail beside the door and leans forward as much as he dares.

“Hey asshole!” he shouts into the wind. “Looking for me?!”

Taking one last deep breath, he jumps.

***

Only when she is absolutely certain that the Shadow Man super-soldier isn’t coming after her does Scully stop running. She looks around wildly. Mulder _has_ to still be here, somewhere.

“Mulder!”

It’s Arizona all over again, with her shouting his name into the night, hoping against hope for some answering call. 

“Mulder!”

But as was the case in Arizona, she receives no response.

***

The roller coaster of emotion is too much for Gibson. His own feelings are magnified by what he hears in Mulder’s thoughts, a sort of resonating loop that spirals him toward despair and exhaustion.

So he sleeps. It is, mercifully, a dreamless slumber, and it cradles him all the way back to New Mexico. Mulder gently shakes him awake, and they wordlessly disembark, waiting amid the other passengers while Mulder’s motorcycle is unloaded. Once they retrieve it, it’s a quiet ride back to the trailer neither of them had hoped to see again, though once they crest the hill and finally come within sight of it, Gibson lets out a sigh of relief.


End file.
